


Stop This

by I May Age Regress (shnuffeluv)



Series: Other Side [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark, Diapers, Everybody Lives, Gen, I'm Sorry, John is Not Amused, Mycroft is Depressed, Non-Sexual Age Play, Pacifiers, References to Drugs, Suicide Attempt, but he doesn't know it for a while
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6222982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shnuffeluv/pseuds/I%20May%20Age%20Regress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft decides enough is enough and attempts to kill himself. John finds him on the edge of consciousness and saves his life, much to Mycroft's chagrin. Trigger warnings for attempted suicide and drugs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop This

All there is around him is tiredness. He doesn’t quite remember why, and he doesn’t care. There’s just pain, and Mycroft doesn’t really know what to do about it. Something about the pills he took, he knows. There were painkillers, and then there was...the alcohol. He couldn't remember what exactly he had drank, just that it was an entire glass full, and then a second of something else. He closed his eyes, just for a second, and all of a sudden the twilight was gone replaced by darkness. Why had he woken up? He wasn't supposed to wake up, was he? A ring throughout the house answered his question. Ah. He made no move to answer it. What was tonight that someone would come over? Something to do with Sherlock, no doubt, but who...oh. John Watson was probably here for their cursory meeting about Sherlock the past two weeks. There was a text on his phone. _Mycroft? You there? I'm outside._

Mycroft didn't respond, just shut his eyes again. His phone beeped again and he groaned, unlocking it to see the latest text, staring blearily at his phone. _Look, I know you're there. Are you okay?_

Mycroft slowly texted a reply, his limbs unresponsive and heavy. He knew he'd lose consciousness soon. _I'm fine. Tired. Leave me be tonight. M_

There was pounding on his door. _I was waiting for a reply for 15 minutes. Something's wrong. If you won't let me in, I'll force my way in._

Had it really been 15 minutes? Mycroft couldn't tell. Everything was so slow, he just imagined this was how normal people felt, not slower.

There was a bang downstairs and Mycroft curled up on himself, closing his eyes tight. The noise was too loud. Everything was too much. Footsteps came up the steps and entered the room. "Mycroft? What's going on?"

Mycroft opened one eye and promptly shut it at seeing John's face filled with concern. _No, I don't deserve that sympathy._ "'M fine," he mumbled.

John growled but stopped suddenly. He must have seen the pills and the glass. "Mycroft, did you mix painkillers with alcohol? How much did you take?!"

Mycroft shook his head.

"Mycroft."

"Only 2 of each. 'Lit kill me?" he chuckled.

"Hopefully no, but you'll be very, very sick. We need to get you to a hospital," John said, trying to pull Mycroft up a bit.

"No hospitals," Mycroft groaned. "I want to stay here."

"Mycroft, you do realize you could get internal bleeding from this!"

"Uh-huh," Mycroft hummed.

"What?!" John hissed. "Are you trying to kill yourself?!"

"I thought that was obvious from the pills and alcohol on the table together," Mycroft rolled his eyes.

John pulled out his phone and dialed 999, swearing under his breath. "Hello? Yeah, I was meeting up with a friend at his house tonight, and, um, I found him with some ibuprofen and...some kind of whiskey, and he admits that he's suicidal." Mycroft scoffed at that. "...Yeah, please. He won't go willingly. Thank you."

John kneeled in front of Mycroft and spoke softly. "An ambulance is going to be here in 8 minutes. You must be really used to alcohol, I'm surprised you're still half-conscious."

"Took it...45 minutes ago. Not that...impressive. Stop...kneeling. 'S 'nnoying," Mycroft slurred.

John frowned and forced Mycroft to sit up, and rose just enough so that they were at eye-level with one another. "Mycroft, how long have you been suicidal?"

"How long have I been a freak?" Mycroft shrugged. "'ve hated m'self for years. Fin'lly dec...cided to...do...something. 'Bout it."

"You're not a freak," John said automatically, desperately listening for sirens. "Mycroft? Mycroft, stay with me. You're not a freak, understand?"

"Mm. You're wrong," Mycroft laughed, spots dancing in his vision. His stomach was rolling, and he felt like he was going to throw up. His eyes fluttered shut and John slapped him gently on the cheek. "Nnnn. No," he whined.

"Who told you you were a freak, hm? Was it Sherlock? Was it? Talk to me."

"It...hurts..." Mycroft groaned, holding his stomach. "Shouldn't have gone...with poison. Other stuff'd be...faster," he sighed.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing rapidly closer. Mycroft winced, feeling his little side coming closer to the surface. _Not now!_

"...Mycroft? Mycroft, come on, stay awake," John pleaded.

Mycroft didn't respond. Everything hurt, and he felt too small, and the siren was too loud, and he could hear people downstairs yelling, and he just couldn't deal with this tonight. He closed his eyes, and hoped that he'd never have to open them again...

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._ There was a heart monitor. There was a heart monitor screaming in his ear, wherever he was. And that wasn't 6 feet under, much to his dismay. He cracked his eyes open and looked around, finding John sitting in a chair next to his bed. _Why would he care?_

John looked over to him and laughed. "You're awake," he murmured. "You've been out 3 days, but you're finally awake."

Mycroft blinked. This was a big deal to him because? "Why'd...'ou...care?" he rasped.

John looked stricken. "I almost watched you die, Mycroft. You don't think I'd be a tiny bit concerned? I'm a doctor, after all!"

_Ah. Sense of duty._ "Well...'m fine, now. Y...you...can...go..."

John set his jaw. "That's not what I meant, you idiot. And I'm not going anywhere. They're releasing you soon, on the condition someone looks after you. And that person is going to be me."

Mycroft squinted at John. _Why?_ "Water...?" he requested. If he were going to be alive, he may as well get comfortable.

"Oh. 'Course, mate," he said, bringing a glass to Mycroft's lips.

Mycroft drank and gasped for air when he was done. His stomach rolled again and he thought he might be sick. "Stomach hurts," he complained.

"Well considering you gave yourself internal bleeding, it should!" John exclaimed.

Mycroft jumped and gripped the sheet he was under as if that would protect him. He felt heat in his lower regions and winced. Had he wet himself? But...his sheets weren't wet.

"Oh...Mycroft, I didn't mean to shout. I'm sorry," John apologized. "Are you okay? Wet at all? I didn't know how often you used nappies, but you had one on when the EMTs showed up, so they put another one on you. Your bladder muscles would be weak, I imagine."

Why is he talking so much? Mycroft scowled. "Leave me alone," he grumbled. "Or at least stop talking so much."

John frowned. "You're in no place to be giving me orders. I'm going to be in charge of you for 3 days."

"3 days?!" Mycroft exclaimed, sending himself into a fit of coughs and spiking his heart rate.

John sat him up and thumped him on the back lightly, leaving Mycroft heaving in gulps on air. "3 days. At least. Don't worry, I'll be nice."

Mycroft grimaced. He really didn't want to do anything remotely with John.

* * *

Mycroft lead John into his house and waved his hand around. "You know where most everything is," he said. "Make yourself at home, just don't invite Sherlock over."

"Mycroft..." John started.

"'Course, the guest room is down the hall from mine, if it makes you sleep easier, and I can keep my door open unless I'm changing..."

"Mycroft."

"...And unless you invite Sherlock over, these 3 days should breeze by and then we never have to see each other outside of Sherlock-related reasons again..."

"Mycroft!"

Mycroft froze mid sentence, and turned to face John. "...Problem?"

"Yeah, a little," John bit sarcastically. "You tried to kill yourself. You can't just brush that off."

Mycroft shuffled in place. "It's not usually like that...I usually just abstractly hate my actions. That day...I just had some bad memories float to the surface."

John pursed his lips. "You never said...Sherlock told you those things, didn't he?"

"Just leave it alone," Mycroft warned.

"Why? So you can? So I can leave and you can try to die again? What's wrong, Mycroft?! Talk to me!"

Mycroft bit his thumbnail and shook his head. "No..." he bemoaned. "No, no!"

"I can't just let this go, Mycroft!" John pressed.

Mycroft felt his eyes well up with tears and in his stress, gave in to his little side, bursting into sobs. He dropped to his knees and buried his head in his hands. The front door closed and he felt two strong arms wrap around him, squeezing tightly. He tried to struggle, because this wasn't _safe,_ he could get attacked at _any time_ like this, but the arms just held him tighter. "No, don't struggle, Mycroft, it's okay," John soothed.

Mycroft stuck his thumb in his mouth and heaved sobs through his nose. He was glad he was in a nappy, since he was pretty sure he soiled it. He stammered out, "I-I-I'm m-m-m-mess-s-ssed up i-in th-the h-head..."

John sighed audibly and gave Mycroft a quick squeeze. "No, no you aren't, you aren't," John insisted.

Mycroft snuffled and sucked on his thumb, making muffled noises of distress.

"Hey, let's go upstairs, put you to bed, yeah?" John offered. "Or at least get you somewhere more comfy than this floor?"

Mycroft nodded. That, at least, sounded nice.

John led him up the stairs and from there Mycroft pointed to his room before John could ask where it was. John placed him on the bed and took a step back and Mycroft whined.

"It's all right, Mycroft, John's just looking for something," John assured, slipping out of Mycroft's room and returning with his first and favorite dummy in hand. "I thought you might want to keep it in your last moments, so I needed to check the study," he explained, replacing Mycroft's thumb with the dummy in his mouth. "Sh, sh, sh. That better?"

Mycroft hummed. "Wittwe," he mumbled. "Why're you bein' tho nithe?" he asked.

Once again, John looked appalled. "Has no one offered to do anything out of the kindness of their own heart for you?"

Mycroft shrugged. "N...not reawwy. Onwy Therwock and me knew about...thith thing," he elaborated.

"Well, that's about to change. Since you clearly need some convincing about what you're doing being okay, I'm going to be spending these next 3 days as your caregiver."

Mycroft's face was the definition of overwhelmed. "What? Why?"

"Because you clearly need someone to look after you, in more ways than one. This could hopefully lessen how much you hate yourself to 0. You just need to be shown that this is okay."

"Thinthe when were you a thycologist?" Mycroft scoffed.

"Tone," John reprimanded.

Mycroft scowled, not because John had ordered him around, but because he actually felt chastised.

John put a hand on his shoulder. "Look, mate, I just want this to go smoothly, okay? I'm trying to help you, but you need to give me a little bit of leeway, yeah?"

Mycroft considered. Was he willing to take this leap of faith? This risk that someone he knew on a personal level only in acquaintance wouldn't black mail him, who could actually make him feel better about how he felt? "...Okay. But you don't do anything I'm not comfortable with."

John lit up. "Great! So let's set some ground rules."

Mycroft nodded and took his dummy out of his mouth. "First one: this isn't sexual. At all. And don't act like it is."

Mycroft swallowed. "O-okay...third rule: I don't have to call you anything I don't want to, and you won't pressure me into anything."

"All right. Fourth rule: I get anything you can hurt yourself in this house, and I can choose one room to block off and keep these things in until I'm gone."

Mycroft nodded, and considered. "...I don't have anything else I can think of."

"I have two," John said. "You will tell me the truth when I ask you something unless you are legally bound to secrecy with your job or whatever, and you have to tell me when you're uncomfortable, with anything. That includes urges to self-harm, or worse. Got it?"

Mycroft nodded. "Got it."

John nodded. "Now, then. I suppose we should start. Are you wet at all?"

Mycroft turned crimson and put his dummy back in his mouth. "Er...a wittwe. Not enough for a change."

John sat next to Mycroft and rubbed his back. "Thank you for being honest. Is there anything you want to do?"

Mycroft shook his head. Nothing was coming to mind, he didn't even plan on living to today.

"Hm...well, it's almost lunch time. We should get some food into you," John thought out loud. "Something easy on your stomach. Got anything like that?"

Mycroft shrugged. He couldn't remember, especially when he was too busy forcing himself to be little in front of John. John picked him up with a grunt and Mycroft squawked in surprise, ducking his head into John's neck to avoid showing his red face. John just chuckled. "You know you're hardly the first little I've taken care of. There were a few in hospital back in the army, closeted, of course, but I'd help them when I could."

"Hmmm," Mycroft mumbled. He wasn't really one for idle chatter.

"Yeah, one of them even managed to fake temporary incontinence for two weeks! It was crazy stuff! Uh, where do you keep your bowls...?"

Mycroft pointed to one of the drawers, then another. "Bowlth, potth," he lisped. "If there'th thoup it'th in the pantry."

"Sounds simple enough," John said, putting Mycroft on one of the bar stools for the island of the kitchen. "I'll be right back," he assured.

Mycroft looked down at his hands and scowled. He didn't need any reassurances. He didn't need _this,_ and was just gonna ride it out until John left. His diaper warmed again, and this time Mycroft knew he needed a change. He stood up and made to leave the room, but John stopped him. "Where do you think you're going?"

Mycroft blushed. "I...I need a change."

"I haven't cleared anything you can hurt yourself with yet, you need supervision. You can change yourself, but tell me when you have to, yeah?" John said, but not with sternness.

"Er...okay. Everything'th in my bedroom. You gonna join me, or...?"

"Yeah, give me one minute."

"I don't have one minute to give! I _have_ to change!" Mycroft insisted.

John looked over at him for the first time since their conversation, and noticed Mycroft's swollen nappy. "Oh. Yeah, you _do_ need a change. I'm with you," John said, crossing the kitchen quickly to walk next to Mycroft.

Mycroft was slightly unnerved by how hovering John was being, but he supposed it made sense. Didn't want the suicidal freak to kill himself off...

"Did you know you sometimes mouth what you're thinking?" John asked.

Mycroft jumped and looked away to examine the wall. He could climb the stairs to his bedroom any time in his sleep. "Do I?" he brushed off.

"You're not a freak," John insisted. "Trust me, I think I would know if you were. You see many strange things in the army. You're not crazy. What I said about the little before? I meant it was crazy he could pull off incontinence that long and not weaken his bladder muscles. Not that he himself was crazy."

"I bet you thay that to everybody," Mycroft scoffed, wringing his hands and walking into his room, pulling a pack of diapers from under his bed. "Look away, pweathe," he requested.

John did so but sniffed. "Mycroft, do you really see yourself as such a freak?"

"A freak is someone who behaves in an irrational way, is this rational?!" Mycroft all but shouted, changing himself quickly and not bothering to put his trousers back on.

"Actually, you'd be surprised how often regression is used as a coping technique," John said calmly. "This is no more irrational than any coping mechanism I've heard of, because there are some wild ones out there. You can't help your feelings, Mycroft."

" _I should though_!" Mycroft wailed. "I should be able to! This shouldn't be something I need!"

"Stop." John ordered, "Look at me, Mycroft. Really look."

Mycroft shook his head. "C-can't. Won't," he mumbled through his tears. "Hafta...hafta bweathe..." he sobbed. "Can't...bweathe..."

John came over to the boy quickly and rubbed circles on his back. "Oh, don't cry, love. You shouldn't cry over this. This is fine, you have to believe me."

Mycroft cried harder and made to get up but John wrapped him in a bear hug. "No, love, we're not leaving John right now. You could hurt yourself."

"That'th the idea!" he exclaimed, but only succeeded in wearing himself out to the point of no resistance.

John let him go and looked under his bed. "What else do you have here that might calm you down, eh?" he murmured. "An old blanket, a teddy bear, and...a box?"

Mycroft continued to cry, and John put the old security blanket over Mycroft's head. "Here, hopefully everything won't seem as overwhelming with one sense gone. I'm gonna pick you up and go downstairs, and we'll have some soup, and then I'm gonna clean up the house while you can play, sound good?"

Ever so reluctantly, Mycroft nodded. He wished he could say no, it didn't sound good, but he knew, that really, he'd been wanting, _craving_ this for years. John picked Mycroft up, and he grabbed his security blanket off his head, sucking on his dummy hard. John rubbed circles on his back. "Hard day, hm?" John murmured. "Moving home from the hospital, I'm not surprised you're overwhelmed."

John bounced Mycroft a bit as he went back into the kitchen and started to boil some milk for the soup, the boy still on his hip. "This is okay," John said. "You understand? Two mates, having soup. What you're wearing isn't important. We're just having soup."

Mycroft nodded, feeling worn out. He hadn't cried like this since Sherlock's antics with drugs, and that was one time that left him barely functional for weeks.

John put Mycroft down on the same bar stool as he was sitting on before, and got out a bowl for each of them, putting the soup in the pot and stirring it. "Three minutes," he said out loud. "Then soup."

Mycroft didn't respond. He didn't feel a need to. John was doing talking for both of them. He came over with two bowls of soup and put them both in front of himself. Mycroft frowned. John held up a finger, spooned some soup from the left bowl, and blew on it, before holding out the spoon for Mycroft to either take or eat right off the spoon. Mycroft trained his eyes on the table and opened his mouth just enough for the spoon to enter. John chuckled and poured the liquid into Mycroft's mouth, taking a separate spoonful from the other bowl for himself, before blowing on another for Mycroft. And thus lunch went this way.

By the time lunch was over Mycroft could barely keep his eyes open. John smiled and waved a hand in front of his face to garner his attention. "Earth to Mycroft, does someone need a nap?"

"Di'n't s'eep well," he mumbled.

"I know," John assured. "Come on, you can sleep on the couch while I baby-proof the house."

John led Mycroft to the couch in his living room, taking away anything sharp or that you need to be 18 to buy, basically. Mycroft listened to John bustle around, drifting in and out of consciousness. Eventually, he went down and didn't surface for an hour, waking up only to John shaking his arm. "Mycroft, you need to wake up if you want any sleep tonight."

The boy sat up and rubbed his eyes, yawning. "Wh...what time izzit?" he mumbled.

"It's 14:00, love. Time to get up." John chuckled. "No matter how cute you are sleeping with that blanket of yours, naps shouldn't last more than an hour or two."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at being called _cute_. There was a knock at the door, and the two looked over at the offending object curiously. "No one's supposed to be here," Mycroft said, looking for his dummy. "Ah. Found it."

John ruffled Mycroft's hair. "I can go see who it is, yeah? You just focus on what you might want to do this afternoon."

Mycroft nodded and John went to the door, and opened it just a crack. "...Sherlock? What are you doing here?"

"What am _I_ doing here? What are _you_ doing here?! You came here, came home in a frenzy, grabbed some clothes, and never came back! That was _4 days_ ago, John! 4 days! What has my brother done to you?!"

Sherlock tried to shoulder the door open further, but John blocked him. "Your _brother_ needs some extra help at the moment, and as a doctor and a friend of sorts, I felt compelled to help in any way that I could. I'll be here 3 more days, Sherlock. Find a way to keep yourself entertained."

John made to close the door but Sherlock forced the door open when John relaxed his grip, and strode in, looking around. "Where is he? This is unacceptable!"

Mycroft, who up until now was peeking above the edge of the couch, ducked down. Sherlock paused at the edge of the room and Mycroft didn't even breathe. "I know you're here, Mycroft," Sherlock warned.

The terrified boy didn't move an inch. Sherlock turned from the living room to John. "Where is he?"

"I can't tell you, Sherlock, not if you're this mad," John reasoned.

"Oh," Sherlock spat. "He's doing that baby thing, isn't he? Up in his room?"

"It's called 'Age Play' and before you ask, yes I'm watching him. Because the things you told him drew him to the conclusion that he shouldn't live anymore!" John yelled.

Mycroft peeked over the couch to see Sherlock standing as if slapped. "Is...he...alive...?"

John nodded. "Thankfully, I got to him in time. But you nearly killed him! I don't even know the extent of the damage you did to his psyche, but from the little I heard..." he trailed off and shook his head in anger. "I can't believe that I called you my friend. It's just awful!"

Sherlock scowled. "What, so you're leaving me to live with a freak, is that it? What does he have that I don't?!"

"A conscience!" John exclaimed. "Now, you either agree to apologize, or you get out."

Sherlock looked over to the living room and saw Mycroft peeking over the edge of the couch, and his voice thundered through the house. " _This is your fault, freak! You're still just as messed up as the day I first saw you, but you have to take decent people and turn them too, huh? You can't ever be satisfied!_ " He stormed out and slammed the door hard enough to make the frame rattle.

John looked at the door and tutted. "Well, that's his loss, eh?" he asked Mycroft. "He doesn't know what he's talking about."

Mycroft shook hard and curled into the couch, to feel something _mush_ into his bum. He had crapped himself in fear. He started to cry audibly, not able to bring himself past the pain he was feeling.

John came over and cooed. "Oh, love, I'm sorry. I know it hurts when family says such things, please don't cry."

Mycroft wrapped himself around John's torso and sobbed for the 3rd time at least that day. John pulled out the back of his diaper and made an understanding noise. "Love, I'm sure you'd feel better if you got a nappy change."

Feeling too small to do anything like that himself, Mycroft just held onto John tighter. "Daddy fikth it," he mumbled.

John rubbed circles on his back and it took a minute for Mycroft to realize what he had said. He was worried about what John would say, but the man just chuckled softly. "And who's Daddy? Would that be me?" he teased.

Mycroft nodded. "Mm-hm. You fikth it."

"All right. Is this you giving me permission to change you?" John asked cautiously.

Another nod.

"All right, love," John said, kissing Mycroft's forehead. "Daddy will fix it for you."

Mycroft could feel the change in altitude when John stood up, carrying him. "Someone's a little monkey, clinging to me like this," John lightly teased.

No reply. John hoisted his little boy higher up as he made his way up the steps, and went into Mycroft's bedroom, pulling out a diaper and wipes. He made quick work or the change, and was soon cleaning his hands with a wipe and throwing away the old diaper. Mycroft was passively watching the ceiling, and John smiled softly. "Feeling better, love?"

A small nod.

John's eyes drifted to the box that he had pulled out earlier, wondering what exactly was in it. "Love, what's in your box there?" he asked.

Mycroft sat up and reached for it, passing it to John. John opened it and swallowed. "Wh-where did you _get_ this?!" he asked. For in the box was a needle filled with an unidentifiable drug but John knew. He knew that at some point Mycroft took this off Sherlock and kept it for himself.

"Enough for an overdothe," Mycroft muttered. "Jutht in cathe."

John paled. "How long have you had this, love?"

"Yearth. It'th probably bad by now, but I keep it anyway," Mycroft admitted, drawing circles on the floor.

John snapped the box shut and left the room. Mycroft followed him out with his eyes, not that he was surprised John left. He expected it; everyone left eventually. What surprised him was when John walked back in with an empty box. "You don't need that, and if I ever see you with any sort of drugs that aren't prescribed by someone, you will be punished, understood?"

"You're...not weaving me?" Mycroft asked.

John frowned. "Not if you're acting like death is just another game to play. I thought you wanted me gone."

Mycroft shrugged. "It'th compwicated, I want...someone to be here, wook after me, but I awtho don't want you to nag me about 'bewieving in mysewf' or whatever thith ith."

"This is someone genuinely caring for you, Mycroft," John said, kneeling down in front of the boy. "Why can't you see that killing yourself is wrong?"

"It'th...jutht alwayth been there, in the back of my mind, ath an option. Like, I'm a bad perthon, but I can alwayth help that by dying."

John looked at him, incredibly sad. "Mycroft, do you know what depression is?"

"Well, yeah, I'm not an idiot."

"Love, you're depressed."

Mycroft frowned, then his eyes widened and his dummy dropped from his mouth. "Oh my gosh, how did I not see this earlier?!"

John shook his head and hugged Mycroft. "Look, I'll give you the name of my therapist, she can recommend a good psychiatrist to you, just to deal with the depression stuff, all right? Nothing else needs to be fixed about you, but you do need help on this front."

Mycroft nodded. "Your therapist can be bribed, though. How good is she if she can be bribed?"

John punched him lightly. "Look, I'll call her now, all right? We'll get you all sorted before I leave, and hopefully you won't have to be hospitalized ever again."

* * *

Mycroft walked out of the psychiatrist's office with a little blue slip in between his fingers. "You didn't have to come with me, you know," he pointed out to John.

"I wanted to be supportive and see this through to the end," he replied. "Next stop's the pharmacy, right?"

Mycroft nodded. "You were right, clinical depression," he said, leading them out to his car. "I can't believe I didn't see it."

"It's hard if you're the one in it, you validate those thoughts automatically instead of questioning them," John replied. "And, look, if you don't want to, I don't ever have to be your caregiver again."

Mycroft coughed as he started the car. "About that..."

"What, did the little monkey enjoy getting to be looked after?" John teased.

"...Yeah," Mycroft admitted.

John laughed. "Next time we talk about Sherlock I can pamper you afterward, sound good?"

Mycroft nodded and pulled out into the street. "...Thanks," he muttered. "For not letting me die."

John nodded and smiled. "Anything for a friend."


End file.
